


Will You Be There

by isthisenoughorcanwegohigher



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: I'm Sorry, emotions suck™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher/pseuds/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher
Summary: Just because you change things doesn't mean you change them enough. Thomas got Newt out of the Last City, but Newt is still dying.





	Will You Be There

**Author's Note:**

> _But they told me_   
>  _A man should be faithful_   
>  _And walk when not able_   
>  _And fight till the end_   
>  _But I'm only human_
> 
> _Everyone's taking control of me_   
>  _Seems that the world's got a role for me_   
>  _I'm so confused will you show to me_   
>  _You'll be there for me_   
>  _And care enough to bear me_

Thomas wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, but he’d gotten Newt out. He would have thought that it was a miracle, except for the fact that Newt was still dying. Brenda had given him the serum when they’d reached the Berg, and it was supposed to work.

Well, it was supposed to work better than it was.

The serum had certainly had an effect. The black veins that had popped out so vividly from Newt’s skin were a faded grey now, and he was no longer coughing up the inky liquid, but the fact remained that he was still dying, and there was nothing Thomas could do to save him.

Vince suspected that the serum only worked if you hadn’t passed what he called the Gone, if you hadn’t fully fallen prey to the Flare.

Jorge thought that Thomas should have listened to Teresa, believed her about his blood, about the cure, about everything. He’d said that that was Thomas’s fatal flaw–once he lost trust in someone, he never trusted that again. He’d said that Newt might have stood more of a chance if Thomas had gone back. He’d even had the nerve to say that maybe if they hadn’t gone after Minho alone, Newt wouldn’t have pushed himself to his breaking point and gotten so sick so fast.

He’d left shortly after that, after Thomas let out a wordless cry and chucked an empty vial of serum at his head.

The thing was, Thomas knew Jorge was right. He was just terrified to admit it to himself, because that would mean admitting that this was his fault. That Newt was sick because of him.

That Newt was dying because of him.

Minho was the only one who had spent enough time with Clint and Jeff back in the Glade to be able to help Thomas understand what was happening, and so he was the only one who spent all his time with Thomas at Newt’s side.

In fact, he’d been the first to realize that Newt was still dying. After Thomas had, in a desperate need to see the black veins fade completely from Newt’s skin, given him four vials of the serum, and still saw no other signs of improvement, Minho had noticed it.

The mottling of Newt’s skin, the coolness of his touch. It stood out more because of the effects of the Flare on his body, and looked more unnatural, but sure enough, Newt’s skin was becoming a marbled pattern of skin and veins as his heart began to fail.

Minho told Thomas that this meant Newt probably had a week left, maybe shorter if the serum stopped preventing the spread of the Flare. It mostly hung on how hard Newt fought, though.

Privately, Minho thought that, knowing Newt, the blond knew what was happening and, after everything, Minho suspected Newt wouldn’t want to fight. After all, wouldn’t it be easier to let sickness claim him rather than give in to the desire to let go?

Privately, Thomas wished that he hadn’t fought Newt back in the Last City, because now he was suffering, struggling to breathe, struggling to live even more than he had when he was riddled with the Flare. Perhaps it would have been a quicker, nicer, more merciful death if he’d died when he wasn’t aware of himself.

* * *

At the moment, Thomas was curled up in his chair at Newt’s side, dozing and waiting for Minho to return with some water for the boy sweating and gasping for breath in bed.

It had been nearly a week since the events of the Last City, and while Thomas knew that Minho wouldn’t say anything, he could see it in the older boy’s face. Newt didn’t have long left. He would die very soon.

“ ‘lby.”

Thomas started, sitting upright so fast his head spun.

“What?” He asked this quietly, fearful that speaking too loudly would break the sort of spell that lay in the air, the slight denial where, as long as Newt was breathing, his impending death wouldn’t be real until he was already gone.

Newt coughed, a wet and rattling sound, and spoke again, also in a whisper. “Alby.”

“Alby?”

Newt’s vision seemed clear for the first time since before the Last City, but he wasn’t looking at Thomas. He was looking at the entrance to the hut, at the curtain that passed for a door fluttering in the breeze.

“He’s proud of you,” Newt said, the words strained.

“You think he would be?” Thomas hoped Newt didn’t notice the confusion in his voice, written on his face. Alby had been dead for months now, after all.

“Says he is.” Newt was still staring at the curtain.

“Newt….” Thomas spoke a little louder. Newt turned to look at him, his eyes shining, a slight smile adjourning his face. Something inside Thomas broke a little, seeing the hope in Newt’s eyes. “I’m glad,” he said, forcing his mouth into his best approximation of a smile.

Newt returned to looking at the roof, the smile falling from his face as a spasm of coughing overtook his body.

They were harsh coughs that hurt Thomas’s ears to listen to, and he wanted nothing more than to take the pain he knew Newt must be in away with a wave of his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, feeling his eyes burn as he blinked back a wave of tears. The words were lost in the sounds coming from Newt’s mouth.

When the coughing fit had passed and Newt had slumped back down in the bed, eyes dim again, skin a dull grey and purple color, Thomas moved as close as he could and grabbed Newt’s hand.

“Thomas?” 

His name sounded broken coming from Newt, and Thomas felt the burning of his eyes intensify. He blinked several times.

“Yeah?”

“I remember you.”

“What?”

Newt laughed a little, though it was a laugh of despair that struck fear into Thomas’s heart. His grip on Newt’s hand increased.

“I remember….” Newt paused, half closed eyes searching for Thomas’s wide eyes. “I remember you, the firs’ time you came up in that box. Scared lil’ Greenie that couldn’t remember his own name.”

In spite of himself, a wobbly smile crossed his face. Thomas remembered that, too, though probably very differently than Newt did.

“I knew–” Newt was interrupted by another short burst of coughing. “I knew I’d follow you anywhere. From th’ moment you ran into that Maze that I’d follow you.”

“Newt–”

“Wouldn’t change a–a thing,” Newt continued, staring imploringly at Thomas. “Not a thing.”

Thomas bit his lip before responding. “There’s not one thing you’d change?”

Newt shook his head. “ ‘N I hope you’ll be able to say the same, years ‘n years from now.” He took a shallow breath, and Thomas felt him squeeze his hand. “ ‘M not scared,” Newt added. “Not really.”

“Scared of what?” Thomas hated himself for the desperation in his voice. He could feel it, so deep that it felt like it was splitting him apart, and he hated that it made him desperate.

“Dying,” Newt answered softly. “C’mon, Thomas, we both know it. Minho knows it, too. I should’a died in that bloody city, Tommy.”

Thomas shook his head, unable now to blink away the tears. “No.”

“ ‘M not scared,” Newt repeated, a little more forcefully. “ ‘N you shouldn’t be, either.” His gaze turned stern. “Don’ be scared for me, Thomas, please. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Thomas agreed, feeling the tears beginning to drip down his cheeks.

“Promise me you’ll take care of them. And yourself. You deserve to be happy, okay?”

“Newt, I can’t–”

“Promise me. Please, Tommy.” Newt turned his head slightly and coughed again. “Please,” he repeated.

Thomas blinked and the tears blurred his vision, casting Newt in a hazy glow. “I promise,” he stated, with as much conviction he could muster while crying. “I promise, Newt.”

A blinding smile crossed Newt’s face then. “Thank you,” he said, gripping Thomas’s hand as tightly as he could. “Thank you.”

Newt’s gaze once again returned to the roof. His chest rose once, twice, a deep, wet, gurgling sound crossed his lips, and then he was still.

“No,” Thomas muttered, dropping Newt’s hand to grab his face. “No. Newt,” he said wildly, “Newt, wake up. Newt? Newt, please. Newt?”

He knew that it was futile, that Newt was gone, that the time for saying goodbye had passed, but the denial he’d been feeling surged up in an overpowering wave, smothering everything and anything else.

“No,” Thomas whispered again. “Please. Newt, please, I need you. I–” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Once the admission had been voiced, the strength left his body, and Thomas fell to his knees. He clutched at Newt’s body and buried his head in Newt’s still chest, harsh sobs falling from his lips, unaware of the curtain being pushed aside as Minho stepped in, the cup of water slipping from his grasp.


End file.
